Wedding Crashers
by Shamelsshussy
Summary: Quinn works too hard. Santana plays too hard. They're both bored. So when Quinn falls for a mysterious stranger, Santana devises a madcap plan to help her friend get the girl. Hijinks ensue. Faberry romance, Brittana romance, Quintana friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**Something new! It's an AU Faberry and Brittana romance and Quintana friendship is a big part of the story. I've been working on this for a while, because I know I've frustrated people with my crappy updating schedules, so I have a bunch ready to roll. Hopefully this little intro will pique some interest.**..

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><p>"Oh, Fabray. This is a new low."<p>

Quinn jumped at the sound of a voice in the quiet office. She looked up from her spreadsheet. She had been staring at the screen for hours and her vision swam as her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room. Explosions of light danced around the silhouette in her doorway.

Quinn rubbed the back of her wrist against her forehead. "Hey, Santana." Her voice was thin and weary.

Santana pushed off the doorjamb and walked toward Quinn, shaking her head.

"What are you still doing here? It's almost..." Santana glanced at the phone in her hand. "...it's after 11."

Quinn sat back in her chair, stretching her arms, her wrist and finger joints popping.

Santana cringed at the sound and took a seat on the edge of Quinn's desk. Her short skirt rode up to the tops of her thighs when she sat. She leaned over and picked through the cold remains of a veggie burger and fries in a styrofoam takeout container on Quinn's desk.

Quinn swatted Santana's hand away and picked a fry for herself.

"Erika. Of course. The team from Atlantic is coming back in next week. You know how they were about the budgets last time. Erika wants it all by Sunday night so she has all day Monday to rile everyone up over the new targets. Which reminds me..." Quinn sat up and dragged her mouse toward herself. "In Q3 did Branding have a..."

Santana wagged a limp fry at Quinn. "Uh uh. There's this thing called a weekend. Maybe you're not familiar with the concept but..."

Quinn let go of the mouse and flopped back in her chair again. She didn't really give a damn about Q3 at this point.

She pushed off from the corner of the desk with her knee and her swivel chair spun halfway around. For the first time in hours she looked outside. The bright lights of a New York Friday night blared back at her, reminding her of what she was missing.

"Wait, what the hell are you doing here then?" She spun back around to Santana. "Shouldn't you be out corrupting some innocent suburban housewife?"

Santana played with her phone, lighting up the touchscreen display, then flicking it off again. "I resent that. She was from Staten Island. Technically, that's an urban borough."

Quinn rolled her eyes.

"And that explains your presence in the office on a Friday night how exactly?"

Santana kept her eyes on the phone in her hand. "Oh. I..."

Before Santana got to an explanation, Quinn saw a flash of blonde hair in the hallway and came to her own conclusion. In another minute her her suspicions were confirmed. A leggy co-ed was heading toward them from the direction of Santana's office.

"Santana?" the girl called hesitantly down the dim hall. "Sorry that took so long. My bra fell behind your..."

"Santana!" Quinn tried to admonish her, but she couldn't quite hold back her laugh. It came out a snort.

Santana flashed Quinn a toothy grin. "They give me a big classy office with a couch and I'm supposed to let it go to waste?" She slid off the desk. "A couch, Quinn. A _couch_."

Quinn shook her head, smiling, and glanced across the room at her own office couch. The only things on it were her abandoned gym clothes and a Whole Foods bag with a few cans of dog food and a cantaloupe in it. Her grin faded.

Santana was at the door, leaning into the hallway. "Over here...princess."

Quinn raised an eyebrow. _Princess_ meant Santana couldn't remember a girl's name.

But the girl didn't seem to suspect. She was in the doorway now, brushing her hair over her shoulder to hide the hickies Santana had left on her pale skin.

Botanica, a nearby dive bar, kept Santana well supplied with NYU girls. A few sultry glances, a few cheap beers, a few strategic brushes of Santana's fingertips on a bare thigh and the girls were more than willing to abandon the awkward, arrogant hipster boys who had brought them to happy hour for Santana's much more intriguing charms.

Quinn doubted that "Princess" had gotten in to the bar with a legitimate ID. She was more likely 19 than 21.

Santana ignored Quinn's frown. Her fingers twirled a lock of the girl's tousled hair. She never could keep her hands to herself around a blonde.

Quinn cleared her throat. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

Santana looked up, narrowing her eyes. She knew Quinn was on to the "princess" trick.

"Sure." she said brightly, tugging the girl further into the room. "This is Quinn. She has a spreadsheet fetish."

Quinn snarled at Santana, then turned her most winning grin on the girl and rose from her chair. Her shirt was rumpled and she had a ketchup stain between the 2nd and 3rd buttons. She was barefoot, having kicked her shoes off under the desk hours ago. But her walk was graceful, her legs smooth and toned.

The girl's gaze lingered on the curve of her thighs and Quinn didn't mind at all. She stepped closer and extended a hand to shake.

"I'm Quinn."

The girl stared for a moment, then blinked. "Hi. I'm Lauren."

Quinn kicked herself for the backfire. Santana didn't waste any time using the advantage.

"Well, Quinn, _Lauren_ and I are going to eat. For some reason, I am famished." Santana's lips curled into a smile, revealing teeth – bright white and sharp. She tugged Lauren back toward her, and Lauren went willingly, curling her body to fit against Santana's hip.

Quinn turned to Santana, a witty retort on the tip of her tongue. But she was overtaken by a yawn before she could reply.

Santana's gaze softened, and she pulled herself away from the blonde for a second.

"Wanna come with, get some real food? Or, we could walk you out, get you a cab..."

Quinn rubbed her eyes, then shook her head and threw her shoulders back. She popped open the last can of diet coke on her desk.

"I really do have to finish."

Santana fixed Quinn with a skeptical look. "Okay. But you're not allowed to bail on brunch again."

"I won't, I swear. I'll be done and ready for many, many cocktails by Sunday morning."

"Mmmhmm." Santana was distracted by Lauren again, tickling the nape of her neck to make the girl giggle.

Quinn shook her head. "Be good."

Santana pulled Lauren closer, sliding a hand over her hip. "Oh, you know I'm good Q. Right, Lauren?"

Quinn shook her head and plopped back into her desk chair. She watched Santana and Lauren walk off toward the elevator, touching and teasing all the way. She'd be surprised if they made it to the ground floor with all their clothes on.

Quinn watched her screensaver swirl for a minute, picked up another cold French fry and studied it. She thought about a warm bath and a cold glass of white wine. Then she thought about a cool rain shower and a warm, wet girl. Santana liked leggy blondes, but the girls in Quinn's dreams were always small, dark, just the right size to tuck their head under Quinn's chin when they danced together or napped together.

Thinking about a pretty, pouting mouth, Quinn's own mouth dropped open a little. Her stiff muscles melted and moved. Her weight shifted forward onto her elbows as she thought about burying her face in tumbling chestnut curls.

Her wrist twitched, imagining a hand to hold.

She hit the mouse by accident and the screen leapt back to life. Her spreadsheet stared back at her, the cursor in the highlighted cell blinking like a hazard lamp.

She watched it blink for a minute, the tiny hum of her computer's fan reminding Quinn exactly how late and lonely it was.

She picked up a pen, gnawed on it savagely for a second and then threw it across the empty room.

_"Shit."_


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi! Thanks for the reviews. Here's some more. Hope you like it!**

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><p>"Need a refill?"<p>

Quinn looked up from her book to find the waiter hovering, a steaming pot of coffee in his hand. She closed her worn copy of The House of Mirth on her finger, marking the page.

"Not right now, thanks. But I'll have another one of these when you get a chance." Quinn tapped her empty glass, which had been full of champagne and fresh squeezed orange juice a few minutes before.

"Do you want to order or are you still waiting for…" The waiter gestured at the empty chair across from Quinn.

"…for my late ass friend?" Quinn smiled and sighed. "Yep, she…"

"…is right here and really needs a bloody mary. Absolut Peppar. Ton of olives."

Santana stepped nimbly around the waiter to slide into her chair. She was clearly still in Saturday night's clothes, a short dress and high boots. When she took off her sunglasses, Quinn could see that what was left of Santana's eye makeup was smudged, tinting the delicate skin under her eyes an ash grey.

"Sorry, Quinn. Sorry, sorry." Santana nodded at the waiter, who was holding out the pot of coffee again. "Coffee. _Yes._ Please."

The waiter stepped back. "I'll give you a minute to look at the menu…"

"Is he new?" Santana looked the waiter up and down. "He looks new."

"Sorry? I…"

Quinn shook her head at the waiter. "Don't mind her, she was raised by wolves."

Santana had ripped open two travel packs of Advil. She gulped down a mouthful of pills and coffee, glaring at Quinn.

"I'm proud of my Hispanic heritage."

"She was raised by Hispanic wolves…" Quinn amended, grinning.

The waiter smiled back at her. "So…I take it that means you're ready to order?"

"We come for brunch a lot." Quinn explained. "The other guy knew our orders. I'm an egg white omelette with spinach, mushrooms and gruyere, she's the caramel banana French toast. And a side of bacon to share."

"Liar." Santana grumbled. She looked up and shook her head at the waiter. "She never shares."

He laughed. "I'll make sure there's extra. And your drinks will be out in just a minute."

"Tons of olives!" Santana called after him as he turned to drop their drink orders at the bar. She winced at the volume of her own voice. Turning back around, she slumped in her chair, titled her head back and closed her eyes.

Quinn went back to her book. She knew better than to interrupt Santana's hangover recovery rituals.

A few minutes later, the waiter delivered their drinks and Santana cracked an eyelid open. She reached out a hand and gratefully wrapped it around her glass, sat up and took a long sip of her bloody mary.

Quinn closed her book and tucked it into her purse.

"Well, hello, Santana."

Santana took another sip and sat up straight. "Good Morning, Quinny." There was a lilting, teasing song in her voice. "You look fucking radiant today…"

She had started out kidding, but Santana realized that Quinn did look great this morning. Her hair was sleek and shining, her shoulders were relaxed, her pretty mouth was curling up in a contented smile.

Santana did what she always did when she saw a gorgeous girl. She grinned and got closer.

She grabbed Quinn's hand, pulled her across the table, nearly knocking over their water glasses. When Quinn was close enough, she grabbed Quinn's cheeks and plopped a wet, smacking kiss by her ear.

Quinn squirmed out of Santana's grasp, wrinkling her nose. "Ew. You smell like an ashtray."

Santana sank back into her seat, tugging her dress back down over her thighs.

"Ugh, I know. I'm gross. Took forever to get back this morning."

Quinn adjusted the napkin on her lap and raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know where you're getting back from?"

"Just some circus party in Red Hook." Santana frowned as she said it. "It seemed like a good idea at the time, and the trapeze girls I hooked up with were definitely entertaining. But I still woke up in fucking Red Hook. No cabs anywhere, had to wait for the Water Taxi. I mean, fun is fun…but…"

"Not worth crossing rivers for?" Quinn took a delicate sip of her mimosa.

Santana cocked her head and studied her friend.

Quinn grew self conscious in the silence. "What?" She swiped the back of her hand over her upper lip. "Do I have…"

"Nah." Santana shrugged. "Just... You can make even my shitty exploits sound poetic."

"Hmmm…The Many Loves of Santana Lopez: An Epic Poem of New York Nights…"

Santana shook her head. "I don't think the word is love, Quinn." She rubbed her fingertips over her cheek and left eye, yawned.

"Anyway, what'd you do last night? I assume not budgets. Spreadsheets don't tend to give a girl that freshly fucked glow you've got…"

Quinn suddenly found the bottom of her coffee cup very interesting.

"Oh, I. Um…stayed in."

Before Santana could say anything else, their food arrived, and Quinn made sure she was very busy rearranging plates and grinding pepper onto her omelet.

Santana didn't touch her French toast.

"Quinn."

"Mhmm?"

"You didn't…Tell me you didn't…"

"Ok. I didn't." Quinn tried to make her voice bright and airy, but she kept her eyes steady on her plate.

"Fuck Q, you didn't actually…"

Quinn shifted in her seat. "She just…stopped by…and…"

"Of course Astrid just stopped by. Just when you're acting almost normal again. That bitch is toxic. I cannot _believe _you..." Santana's started out in a whisper but her voice rose in pitch and volume with every word.

Quinn shrugged sheepishly. "Her DVDs were still at the apartment."

"Oh, and after 4 months, there's suddenly a DVD emergency on a Saturday night? Shit." Santana's usual pout was twisted into a scowl. She grabbed her glass of water and gulped down about half of it.

"What are you so mad about anyway?" Quinn asked. "It's not like you're the one who…"

"No." Santana stabbed her fork into French toast. "You're the one. You're the one she hurt. You're the one who showed up at my apartment at three am with fucking…" Santana choked on the word. "Fucking bruises on your arm…"

Quinn lowered her gaze. "That was just once. And she didn't mean…"

Santana glared at her plate, pushed it away. "I can't believe we're even having this conversation."

"Well," Quinn sniffed, made sure not to blink. "Anyway, she's moving. So."

"Hmph." Santana crossed her arms over her chest. "If she fucking decides she forgot her goddamned favorite toothbrush at your place, you call me. I'll bruise the shit out of her face."

Quinn pressed her palm to her eye to keep a tear from escaping. "I love you, Santana."

"Back atcha, Q." The words were careless but Santana's voice was soft. Her fingertips found Quinn's under the table, a light but lingering touch.

Quinn blinked away the rest of her tears.

"I know it was stupid. But I was just…lonely. You know?"

Santana tightened her grip on Quinn's fingers and thought of the ash gray sky she had seen from a Red Hook rooftop at 4 that morning. "Yeah." She sighed. "I know."

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><p>.<p>

"What are you doing now?"

Santana wiped the last drops of caramel sauce from her plate with her middle finger. After a few minutes of calm and a second bloody mary, her appetite had returned with a vengeance.

Quinn shrugged. " I don't know…maybe a nap. I didn't sleep much…"

"I was gonna say we should hit up happy hour at Cubby Hole. But a nap sounds genius. Why do I never think of good ideas like that?"

"Cause you never want to sleep, Santana." This had been one of their major problems when they were a couple. Quinn liked cozy bedtimes and early morning breakfasts in bed. But Santana was restless all night long, wondering what she was missing.

"I sleep." Even as she spoke, Santana was finishing her third cup of coffee. Still, she yawned. "I could definitely sleep now."

"Alright, so come over. We'll watch a movie and take a nap."

"Not one of fucking Astrid's DVD's." Santana mumbled.

"She took them all, I swear."

Outside the restaurant, Santana slipped her sunglasses on and fell into step beside Quinn.

"God damn it. Look at all these people having fun."

Quinn looked around. Acorss the avenue the sound of reggae music and the smell of warm powdered sugar poured out over the crowd at a street fair. A group of kids raced by on scooters, shouting. Their parents strolled behind them, chatting amiably and licking melting popsicles. A young couple stopped at the corner to wait for the light and started to kiss, the girl's fingers curling into the guy's belt loops. It was a sunsoaked summer Sunday and everyone was enjoying the hell out of it.

"We should be having fun. We're 27. It's summer. We're super hot. I cannot believe melancholy brunch, conversation about your shitty ex, and a nap is our best option."

"What are you talking even talking about? I'm a mess. But you have fun all the time, you're out every night…"

"But it's boring." Santana whined. "I know exactly what's gonna happen. I go out, I meet some chick, we party, we fuck, I leave. " "We need REAL fun. Something unexpected. New people. Adventure. Cocktails. The Unknown.

As they approached the 18th street, a girl stepped out of the yoga studio on the corner. She fell into step a few paces ahead of them, heading in the same direction.

"And…Speaking of fun…" Santana shoved her sunglasses back on her head to get a better look. The girl in front of them was petite and trim but curved in exactly the right places. Her baggy sweatshirt hung off one shoulder, revealing an expanse of smooth, olive toned skin. The shirt stopped at the small of her back and she wore snug black workout pants, giving Santana plenty to ogle.

"Holy fucking shit." Santana nudged Quinn with her shoulder. "Are you seeing that ass? Even you can't deny that ass."

"Oh my god. Do you need to be so loud?" Quinn pushed Santana so she was walking a few inches away. But her eyes were on the woman in front of them too. There was something deeply intriguing about the way the sunlight caught the chestnut highlights in her hair.

And Quinn couldn't deny it. That _was _a pretty fucking amazing ass.

Unconsiously, Quinn licked her lips.

"Ha! Saw that!"

Quinn swatted at Santana with her handbag. "Shut _up_."

"Is she going into your building? Oh my god, does she live in your building? Are you acquainted with that ass?"

"What?...No…" Quinn didn't know too many of her neighbors, having wrapped herself up in work for the past 4 months, and Astrid for the 8 months before that.

Santana watched Quinn watch the girl move through the door of the apartment building.

"C'mon." She grabbed Quinn's arm and dragged her the rest of the way up the block.

"Keys!" Santana demanded as they approached the door.

Quinn fumbled with her keys, but Santana grabbed them from her hand and jammed the front door key home, yanked open the door and shoved Quinn into the lobby. Santana loved the sense of urgency she had created out of thin air; her heart was pounding, she was grinning. _This _was fun.

Quinn stumbled forward, propelled by Santana. She nearly knocked into the girl, who was standing at the mailboxes, sorting through her mail.

"Oh. I'm s…" Quinn started to say sorry, but the girl looked up just then and the word disappeared into a soft hiss of air. Pretty girls made Santana speed up, but beauty had always made Quinn slow down and sigh.

Santana elbowed Quinn and she recovered enough to smile back and finish her sentence.

"…I'm sorry."

"Oh, no. It's my fault. I shouldn't be standing here, just taking up the entire…"

"It's…" Quinn started to speak again, but the girl rushed on.

"… I just _had_ to check the mail right away. My friend is getting married this weekend and I had this song written by a composer friend, specifically for the wedding. But the first arrangement was all wrong and now there's hardly any time left to…" the girl slipped a few sheets of paper out of the manila envelope she was holding, examined them and smiled, relieved. "This is alright."

She shifted her gaze to smile up at Quinn. "I'm sorry, here I am going on about my problem. You were just trying to be polite and apologize." The girl frowned down at the sheet music again. "I've just been uncommonly unsettled lately. I just moved, and between that and the wedding taking up so much of my time lately... Kurt is my VERY best friend and I know how important this is to him, but I think his detail oriented nature might be clouding his judgement at this point. I mean...He insists the wedding planner is just slightly colorblind and now he has me running around trying to find ribbon for the programs that matches the invitation exactly." She shuffled through the papers in her hand and held up a wedding invitation, blue and gray, edged in silver gilt.

"And so with my song for them...I just…" The girl faltered, then straightened her shoulders and rose to her full height, which was still about three inches shorter than Quinn.

"…I just want to be sure I _shine_."

"You will." Quinn surprised herself with her own conviction.

"Oh…_Thank _you."

Quinn and the girl stood, staring at each other for a minute, small smiles creeping on to their faces. Santana looked back and forth between them, amused, and then, after 30 seconds, bored. She bumped Quinn with her hip.

"I'm Santana. This is Quinn."

"Where are my manners? I'm Rachel. It's a pleasure to meet you both."

Rachel put out a hand to shake. Santana grabbed it first.

"It's a real pleasure for me too…" Her eyes lingered on Rachel's collar bone, the swell of her breast under her sweatshirt.

Rachel lowered her eyes, long lashes sweeping her cheeks. She didn't take her hand back right away.

Quinn was aghast. She couldn't decide if she was more mad at Santana for hitting on the girl, or at herself, for not doing it first.

Quinn bumped back against Santana's hip and angled her body so that it was between Santana and Rachel. Santana smirked at Quinn and pulled back a little.

Quinn took Rachel's hand in her own.

"Hi."

Rachel had blushed when Santana took her hand, but now she positively glowed. "Hi…Quinn."

"You just moved…" Quinn said. "If you're new to the neighborhood, maybe I can show you…"

Rachel's smile faded and her hand dropped away from Quinn's.

"No."

"Oh…kay." Quinn frowned.

"Sorry. No. I mean, I just moved_ out_ of this building. I live in Brooklyn now. I still do yoga down the block, so I just stopped in to see if there was any mail." Rachel held up the sheaf of papers in her hand.

"Oh…" The light in Quinn's eyes dimmed. She focused on the gilt edge of the bank of mailboxes and forced herself to shrug. "Well. It was nice to meet you, anyway."

Santana rolled her eyes.

"Hey, Rachel." Santana pointed at the ground behind Rachel. "Did you drop something?"

Rachel wheeled around to check and as she did, Santana made a sudden movement with her arms, sending Rachel's papers flying.

"Oops. Let me get that."

Santana knelt and gathered Rachel's papers, gathering them into a messy pile. Quinn bent to help, but Santana smacked her hand away.

"Got it!" Santana said brightly, shoving the papers in Rachel's direction with one hand, as the other disappeared behind her back.

"Thanks…I…"

Rachel's phone buzzed. She took it out of her purse and checked her messages. "That's Kurt, we're meeting to address this ribbon situation. I should…"

But she lingered, her gaze on Quinn.

"I wish we had met when we were neighbors."

Quinn blinked slowly, melting a little at the bashful tone that had crept into Rachel's voice.

"Well. Maybe…" Quinn's voice was low, she had to clear her throat before she could be heard. "Maybe we'll run into each other again."

"I hope we will."

Rachel's phone buzzed again and Quinn wanted nothing more than to smash it against one of the exposed brick walls that made her rent so high.

When she was gone, Quinn slumped against the mailboxes.

"Why am I exhausted all of a sudden?"

"Because it's been ages since you've run any game and you're having trouble keeping up?" Santana suggested.

"Fuck you."

"Tried that, remember? Wasn't our thing."

Quinn cracked a smile and let out a big breath. "Figures I meet an adorable girl right after she's moved out."

"This is what I'm always saying about working, Q. All work and no play and you miss out on some fine pieces of ass…Lucky you have a super fucking amazing best friend though…"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Quinn peeled herself off the wall of mailboxes and started toward the elevator.

Santana opened her left hand to reveal a crumpled piece of cardstock. "Remember what I was saying about fun?"

Quinn nodded slowly, her heart speeding up.

"How do you feel about crashing a wedding?"

"You stole…?"

"Hey. She _dropped_ it. And I just think it would be great for you two crazy kids to accidentally, coincidentally, totally randomly out of the blue run into each other again…"Santana scanned the invitation. "Next Saturday…" She read further. "At the wedding of Kurt Hummel and Samuel Evans." She looked up. "A gay wedding Quinn. It's like, a sign."

"That's not a sign of anything except that this state is relatively progressive." Quinn marched into the elevator and punched the button for her floor, nine. As the elevator started to move, she avoided Santana's gaze.

Santana moved directly into Quinn's line of sight and waved the invitation in front of Quinn's face. "Excitement. Adventure. New people. Cocktails… The Unknown!"

Quinn bounced a little on the balls of her feet. "Her ass was killer, right?"

Santana happy shout echoed off the elevator walls. "That's my girl!"

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><p><strong>Let me know what you think! :) <strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi everyone. Thanks to all of those who reviewed and subscribed. I took some time to update because I made some major changes to what I had written for this story. I like this a lot though, I hope you all will too. Let me know what you think.**

"So wait…" Blaine handed Santana her caramel latte, and Quinn her café au lait.

He put his own coffee to the side to attend to Erika's double shot soy cappuccino, dumping in three packages of Splenda and making sure not to stir. "You guys are just…crashing this wedding? That's kind of scandalous."

Blaine walked Erika's drink to her empty spot at the head of the conference table and straightened a few of the folders on the table on his way back. He hopped up and took a seat on the filing cabinet, across from Santana and Quinn.

Quinn passed Blaine his own coffee and he took the lid off, took a big, scalding gulp.

"Stop scaring her. " Santana admonished, "She keeps trying to back out."

But Blaine's words had already given Quinn another nauseating wave of doubt.

"You see?" Quinn waved her coffee cup in Santana's direction. "This is a terrible idea."

"C'mon, Quinn." Santana licked a swirl of foam from her upper lip. "Scandal is the whole point. You need a little disgrace in your life. Especially if it involves that yoga girl."

"Yoga girl? There's a yoga girl?" Blaine asked, his head swiveling toward Santana.

Santana nodded. "Ask her." She jerked her head in Quinn's direction.

"Her name is Rachel..." Quinn's started out sounding aggravated but her voice trailed off at the end of the sentence. Blaine could see a bright flush creeping over her cheeks, burning red at the tips of her ears.

"Ooh. YOGA girl." Blaine shrieked in delight. "She sounds…"

Santana leaned in toward Quinn. "…FLEXIBLE."

Blaine laughed, coughing up a mouthful of coffee. Quinn tried to shoot Santana a death glare, but she was stifling a giggle herself.

Santana swiveled her chair around to face Blaine again and kicked her foot up to rest on the filing cabinet.

"That's why we have to hit this wedding. Despite Quinn's utter lack of game, despite the fact that I was standing right there, looking super fly…Q and this chick…there were sparks."

Quinn's head snapped up.

Santana noticed, and had a sharp quip on the tip of her tongue. But Quinn's eyes had a light in them that she hadn't seen for a long time, so she didn't say a thing.

Santana turned back to Blaine. "So all we've got is sparks" Quinn ducked her head again "And thefact that she is going to this big gay wedding on Saturday."

Santana whipped the invitation out from under a pile of marketing spreadsheets. Blaine snatched it out of her hand and she continued. "…We're going so Quinn can get her girl."

"Santana, I didn't realize you were such a romantic." Blaine said. "It's sweet."

"She's not." Quinn rolled her eyes. "She'll just do extremely ridiculous things to get laid."

Santana jabbed a finger in Quinn's direction. "Hey, This extremely ridiculous thing is to get YOU laid. Which makes me an incurable romantic and a very very very good friend."

"Please, like you're not gonna pick up three bridesmaids while we're there."

"So we're definitely going then?" Santana clapped her hands softly. "Yay!"

"GUYS." Blaine stood up quickly, nearly knocking his coffee cup over. "Do you realize who's wedding this IS?"

He held the invitation aloft, regarding it with wide eyed reverence. But before Santana or Quinn could answer, staffers started trickling in to the conference room door, scurrying ahead of Erika.

Santana and Quinn straightened in their chairs, hastened to flip through the folders before them and look busy.

But Erika ignored them, peered at Blaine from over her horn rimmed glasses and under her thatch of blunt cut bangs.

"Blaine. There you are. Can you please…?"

"Your cappuccino? It's already at your…"

"I see. And did you call…?"

"Yep, they said they'll have the proofs messengered over, we should have them by 3 at the latest."

"And the updated…"

Blaine tossed his empty coffee cup toward the trash and made the shot. He crossed to Erika's side. "Photocopied, in the folders." He grinned at her.

Erika stared back for a minute, her gaze icy. But Blaine's sunny smile never flagged. She relented, cracked a smile and patted Blaine's immaculately coiffed head.

"Congratulations. You don't get fired today."

"Thanks, Erika!"

Blaine flashed an even bigger grin and settled in to a seat on Erika's left, firing up his laptop to take down the meeting minutes. His relentless cheer, impeccable admin skills and unflagging good manners had made him, at 8 months in, Erika's longest lasting assistant ever.

They settled around the conference table, Erika at the head, Santana clustered with the rest of her Branding team, Web Marketing at the far end. Quinn moved to sit with Augie, their CFO.

A few more severe haircuts and they could have been the staff of a fashion magazine, a few more beards and skater shoes with the suits and they could have been a tech startup. As it was, their particular balance of ironic but well groomed moustaches and vintage inspired pencil skirts meant they were New York's premiere boutique marketing firm. EM Media was aggressive with their strategy, but their messaging was known for being timeless and classy. New York Magazine had recently done a style piece on the office called "Modern Day Mad Men."

But Erika had built the company on substance, not style. She called the meeting to order and quickly directed everyone's attention to the project targets Quinn had spent the weekend slaving over.

Blaine typed diligently away. When the conversation flagged for a minute while Drew fumbled for a number, Blaine took the opportunity to open an email. He tagged Santana and Quinn in the "To:" field.

In the subject line, he wrote: _As I was saying, do you know whose wedding this IS?_

He opened a new browser tab, typed the name Sam Evans into a Google image search, selected three of the pictures that appeared, copy/pasted them into the body of his email and hit send. Satisfied with his work, Blaine quickly tabbed back over to his meeting notes and hurried to catch up with the meeting.

Santana was constantly running her fingers over the touch screen of her phone, flickering through messages, idly running through twitter streams. She saw the email alert first, swiped through to the message. She raised an eyebrow at the subject heading, and raised it even higher when she scrolled down to the pictures.

In the first picture, a hunky blonde grinned sheepishly at the camera, five gold medals and two silvers slung around his neck. He was a swimmer, clearly. He wore only skin tight racing trunks slung low on his hips, revealing rippling abs and far more skin than was decent.

The next picture appeared to be the cover of a porn DVD. Santana snorted a little when she read the title – "Deep Strokes". The same blonde was staring out from the photo, but this time his eyes were guarded, his mouth tight.

Her curiosity aroused, Santana scrolled down to the last photo. It was an Out magazine cover. Blondie was there, looking fit and hunky in jeans and a tight white t-shirt. Next to him, a pale, dark haired guy in an impeccably tailored slim fit suit was mugging for the camera, batting his eyelashes up at the blonde. The swimmer had one long arm wrapped around the other mans shoulders, pulling him close as he bent to kiss his cheek. Smiles were spread across both their faces. The headline read "Wet and Wilde: At Home with Sam and Kurt."

"What the...?" Santana muttered under her breath. She bent her head to type a reply to Blaine and Quinn. "Blaine, you'd best explain at happy hour. Required attendance, Q.

"Santana? You want to weigh in on that aspect of it?" Jeff turned to Santana.

"Hmm?" Santana pushed a button, her phones screen went dark.

"The plans for integration of the Sentium branding..."

"Of course" Santana glanced quickly at her notes, then straightened and addressed the meeting. "Since we've seen success with geo-targeting, we're pushing for next-stage strategy..."

Across the table, Quinn snuck a look at her blackberry. She furrowed her brow. She wasn't exactly sure what Blaine was getting at, and the porn was seriously confusing her, but at the very least, it was clear the two guys getting married on Friday were a high profile, media savvy couple. Quinn doubted they'd let just anyone waltz into their wedding.

Quinn's heart sank. Santana would be even more determined to crash now; if there was one thing that woman loved, it was _complications._

* * *

><p>"Hey. Where's Santana?"<p>

Blaine was settled in a corner booth at Botanica, a vodka soda on the table in front of him.

Quinn had picked up her Ketel martini on her way to the table. She slurped a mouthful to make sure the drink wouldn't spill then carefully set the glass down on the table. She put her bag down on the seat and slid in after it.

"Her meeting with Kiersten ran long. She texted me, she'll be down in 10, 15 minutes.

Blaine checked the time. I"ve only got til 730, I'm meeting Danny..."

Quinn another sip of her drink and felt the muscles in her shoulders begin to unclench. She had been hunched over reconciliations all afternoon.

She smiled at Blaine. "That seems to be going well..."

Blaine and Danny had been dating for about two months. Quinn had only met him a few times, but it was clear he was witty, ambitious, and completed crushed out on Blaine.

"Great, amazing, a romance for the ages." Blaine laughed. "But speaking of that, I want to hear about you and this yoga girl..."

"Rachel." Quinn said her name for the second time that day. She took another sip of her drink to avoid Blaine's gaze.

"Rachel." Blaine nodded, and said nothing more.

Quinn felt a rush of gratitude toward him. Santana was a great friend, but Blaine's sincerity was a nice change of pace.

"I feel nuts for letting Santana talk me into this. I mean, I met this girl for two minutes, I just feel so silly for even thinking..."

Blaine shook his head.

"Having good feelings about someone isn't silly. I mean, it's not even something you can control."

Quinn nodded, thoughtful. Blaine's phone buzzed and he was occupied for a moment with a quick flurry of texting.

Quinn doodled on the napkin in front of her. _Feeling is faith and faith, all._

She stared at the words, surprised at herself.

Before Blaine looked up from his texts, she gulped down a big mouthful of martini and slid the napkin into her purse.

"Sorry about that." Blaine apologized.

"No worries." Quinn made her mouth smile. "Anyway, what's all that cryptic Sam Evans stuff you sent over? Is he really an Olympic Medalist?

Blaine shook his head. "When Santana gets here. In the meantime, we haven't even discussed the most important thing. The invite said black tie. What are you gonna wear?

* * *

><p>Five minutes later, Santana hustled into the bar, head down over her phone. She was wrapping up the last few emails of the day, thumb going full speed over the keypad display. But she knew Botanica well enough to make it to the bar without lifting her gaze.<p>

Santana perched on a barstool and spared a moment from her messaging to nod at Sara, the bartender, who was down at the other end of the bar helping a couple with a few pints.

"Maker's Manhattan" Santana mouthed in Sara's direction. Sara knew how she liked it - light on the bitters, two cherries.

Santana went back to her e-mail or a few minutes, frowned and fiddled with the wording. Finally satisfied, she hit "send" and slipped the phone into her purse. She wrapped her left hand around the highball glass that had appeared in front of her and took a long, satisfying sip. Santana felt the Maker's behind her breastbone, tracking a warm lazy path downward. She smiled.

She saw Quinn and Blaine in the corner, waving her over. But Santana took her time getting out a twenty out for the bartender, using the time to take a quick glance around the bar. A few pretty girls, but no one special.

Santana was used to being bored. But over the past few months, especially with Quinn so wrapped up in her Astrid drama and then recovering from her Astrid drama, Santana had been verging on lonely. And that was a new and entirely unwelcome feeling.

Which was why Santana was so looking forward to this wedding crash this weekend - something full of sensation, devoid of sentiment. And maybe, if Quinn got laid, the melancholy would stop rubbing off.

Santana picked up her change, leaving a five on the bar for Sara. She strode across the room and scooted in next to Quinn.

Quinn looked at her curiously, noticing her downturned mouth.

"You ok?"

Santana shrugged and put on a smile.

"What's all the mystery Blaine? You're not the not only one who can use Google, you know?" Santana called up a browser window she had saved on her phone.

"Samuel Evans" Santana read out from the New York Times "Vows" page. "Five time Olympic gold medalist at the 2012 games, will wed Kurt Hummel, author, talk show host and media mogul, this Saturday at Steiner Studios on the Brooklyn waterfront…"

"So that's the deal? He's a big gay swim star who fell from grace and now he's marrying gay Oprah or something?"

"Santana, you are sucking all the romance out of the story." Blaine scowled. "Sam Evans was one of the first out gay athletes to really become an American media darling. Then, just after the Olympics in 2012, his parents died in a house fire. He gave up swimming to care for his younger siblings, lost all his sponsorship deals. But he was so young, barely out of high school. All the money went to debts and funeral expenses and Sam didn't really have any way to support the two kids. He worked odd jobs, road crews, construction. Then someone offered him a lot of money for a one-time appearance in a swim team porn and…he took the deal. The money got them out of motels, into a decent house, got his brother and sister into good schools. So he kept it up."

Santana snickered at the unintentional pun. "And how do you know all this? All the New York Times says is 'Evans fell on hard times after his parent's tragic deaths in late 2012'…"

Blaine feigned nonchalance. "I may have read the unauthorized Sam Evans biography…two or five times…"

"So you're an _expert._" Santana said. "Well, go on with the big gay fairy tale then…"

"So…"Blaine sucked some vodka soda through a straw. "About a year and half later, Kurt is doing this big show on out athletes…You guys have seen _Kurt!_ Right?"

Santana squinted at Blaine. Quinn shrugged.

"Seriously? _Kurt!_ is the highest rated show on Logo. He was the grand marshal at Pride...? His production company just greenlit a three picture deal for hand drawn animated gay fairy tales...?

Blaine waited, but all he got were blank stares.

He threw up his hands, exasperated. "You two are the worst lesbians ever. Don't you like... go to gay bars or watch TV or read...anything?

"I've been reading a lot of Rimbaud lately…" Quinn offered.

Santana tossed her head, sending a cascade of long brown hair over her left shoulder.

"Sorry if I'm too busy actually fucking chicks to be a good lesbian, Blaine."

Blaine sighed and knocked back the rest of his drink.

"God. Ok. Basically, you've decided to crash the wedding of the gay century. The hunkiest sex symbol is marrying the media it-boy. And Kurt is notoriously protective. So plan for plenty of security. And a big problem if you get caught. Media frenzy level problem. Erika will flip if EM gets dragged into it. So just…be careful."

Quinn looked worried. Santana looked resolved.

"We can do it." Santana decided.

Blaine grinned.

"And you're gonna help," she continued."

Blaine groaned.

"See, not so fun when you're on the ride, is it Blaine?" Quinn asked.

"What? We need your gay expertise, since Q and I are apparently the worst homos ever. Make us a one-sheet on each of these guys for tomorrow?"

Blaine made one-sheets at the office all the time, rundowns on client companies including a short bio on key players, core beliefs, growth timelines, notable events, financial history. He was used to digging around in news databases.

Blaine tilted his glass back and gulped down the last of his vodka tonic. "I get to do your homework? What's in it for me?"

Santana ticked the reasons off on her fingers. "One, you get Quinn laid..."

Quinn interrupted. "Santana, she might not even be..."

"Please, Quinn, I was there for your little eyefuck fest, remember? Unless you really screw it up, you'll get some."

Quinn blushed and didn't say anything else.

"Two, you save me from another Saturday night in some godforsaken outpost of Brooklyn. And three..." Santana waited to be sure she had Blaine's attention. "…You get all the big gay wedding swag we can lay hands on."

Blained bit his lips to hide the smile spreading across his face. He pressed a hand to his bowtie, excited.

"Oh my god, do you think they'll have matchbooks? Alex out just DIE if we had Kurt and Sam matchbooks to leave casually around the house."

"Yeah, yeah, matchbooks, Jordan almonds, toilet paper with gay Oprah's face embossed on it, we'll bring you as much as we can."

Blaine did a wriggling little happy dance in his seat.

Santana looked at him appraisingly. "You're a real gay nerd, you know that?"

"Lucky you've got me on the research then, huh?"

Santana rolled her eyes and polished off the last of her Manhattan, slurping the cherries up from the bottom of the glass.

"I'm getting another drink. Quinn?"

Quinn nodded and held out her empty martini glass.

"You too?"

Blaine shook his head. "I gotta get to Alex's show."

Santana blew him a kiss, a big theatrical gesture. "Gay enough for ya?" she asked, sauntering off toward the bar.

Blaine laughed, collected his belongings and started to slide out of the booth.

"Ah...Blaine?" Quinn kept him on the booth with a hand on his arm.

"Yeah?"

"When you do the research..."

Blaine nodded.

"Don't... I mean...just the basics, okay? Just the facts."

"Of course Quinn." Blaine straightened to standing. "I'm thorough, but I don't go digging for..."

"Just enough to make sure we can make it in the door." Quinn's voice was low, her tone was serious. "And nothing on...Rachel," she added.

Blaine cocked an eyebrow, confused. "But I thought you wanted to meet her."

"Exactly. I want to meet her. Not stalk her."

"Your wish is my command." Blaine leaned down and gave Quinn a peck on the cheek. "You're a class act, Fabray."

Quinn laughed and shook her head. Santana was coming back from the bar with their drinks in hand, shaking her tits in their general direction.

"Not if I keep hanging around her..."

* * *

><p>"Rachel?...Rachel?"<p>

Mercedes got no response. She turned, wondering if maybe Rachel had left the room when she wasn't looking. But no, she was right there, sitting on a round hassock in the corner of the changing room, staring off into space like she had been for the last 20 minutes.

"Rachel!"

Rachel sat up straight, startled and let out a little squeak.

"Oh. Oh. Sorry, Mercedes. Did you say something?"

"Can you zip me up?"

"Sure. Of course. I...Sorry."

Rachel bustled over, her dress rustling as she crossed the room. She and Mercedes were dressed in identical floor length gowns. Rachel's was still a bit too long for her, Mercedes' needed to be taken in about a half inch under the arms. But they were gorgeous dresses, of the same basic one-shoulder design and midnight blue silk, but with delicate ruching and pin tucks placed to ideally flatter each girls' individual curves. Kurt had plenty of money, and he was sparing no expense when it came to making sure his wedding party looked stunning.

"You look amazing." Rachel's small hands nimbly gathered the fabric at the back of Mercedes' dress and slid the zipper up.

"Thanks. Considering that this dress is probably costing Kurt more than two months' rent costs me, that's..."

But Rachel eyes were glazing over already. She was staring over Mercedes' shoulder at her own reflection in the full length mirror, seemingly fascinated by the curve of her own lips.

"Hello..." Mercedes waved a hand in front of Rachel's face. Rachel blinked and blushed.

"Where *have* you been all day, Rachel Berry?"

Rachel had been moony since they had all met up for brunch that morning. She had barely eaten a thing, even though Sarabeth's lemon ricotta pancakes were usually her favorite. Kurt had chided her, encouraged her to at least have a muffin or some fruit. But Rachel just pushed everything around on the plate until Kurt had to leave for the studio. Then she stopped pretending entirely, and stared starry eyed at her plate while Mercedes, Brittany and Sam talked around her.

Rachel blushed even deeper and suddenly found her cuticles very interesting.

"It's nothing...just tired from all the wedding excitement, I guess..."

Mercedes studied Rachel, trying to get a good look at her eyes. Rachel fidgeted under the scrutiny, strange behavior for a girl who usually loved the spot light.

Mercedes still couldn't quite put her finger on it though.

"Are you...?" Mercedes started.

But before she could finish the sentence, Brittany burst through the curtain that separated the changing suite from the rest of the atelier.

She took one look at Rachel and Mercedes, grinned, bounced over to the hassock that Rachel had vacated and draped herself over it, so that her head and shoulders hung backwards over the side, blonde hair tumbling to the floor.

"She's got a crush on someone." Brittany announced. "Duh."

"I don't!" Rachel yelped, glaring at Brittany.

"You DO!" Mercedes swatted at Rachel, raining gentle blows on her bare shoulders. "You totally do."

Brittany sat up again, laughing. "Busted."

Rachel bit her lip. "Well. Maybe I did make the acquaintance of someone I found attractive...but that doesn't mean I have a crush on her..."

"Her?" Mercedes raised an eyebrow.

Rachel identified as bisexual. But when she dated, which was rarely, she usually dated men. It wasn't that she preferred them. Rather, she simply didn't take much time away from her career to pursue romantic attachments. Men asked her out, and if she was free, or needed a date for an event, she said yes. If an attractive woman had asked, she would have said yes with even more enthusiasm. The problem was, women were rarely as forward.

"Is she hot?" Brittany stood and crossed to the mirror. She gathered her hair up, twisting it into a messy bun.

Brittany didn't identify as anything. But her crystal blue eyes, easy smile and perfectly toned dancer's body meant she had no problem dating whoever she wanted. She didn't wait for anyone to ask her. She simply found the people she wanted to know and got to know them. Mostly she found she wanted to know people who were goofy and adventurous, brash and sexy. It didn't matter to her if they were guys or girls; both had plenty of intriguing charms for Brit.

Rachel tried to dodge the question. "Brittany...You got your dress all wrinkled," she admonished.

Brittany stared Rachel down in the mirror. She was glad to be here for Sam; they'd known each other since 6th grade and she loved him like a brother. She liked Kurt a lot too, he was generous and funny, outrageous and most importantly, good to Sam. But Rachel had never been Brittany's favorite among Kurt's friends. Rachel had been the one to hold out the longest against Sam, believing him to be a beautiful and charming man, but harboring some harsh criticisms about his past. After a few months, Rachel had thawed out, and she and Sam were quite friendly now. But Brittany, who was off on tour for long stretches at a time and thus not as integrated into the group, had never quite grown comfortable with Rachel.

This week, concentrated doses of stressed out, wedding-mode Rachel were really starting to wear on Brittany's nerves. With four more days to go before the wedding on Saturday, Brittany was glad to have something to poke at Rachel with, the way Rachel had been poking and scolding at her all week.

"Whatever. They'll steam the dresses out when the alterations are done." Brittany managed to reach her own zipper and dragged it down to the base of her spine. She shrugged the dress off her shoulder then lowered it to her hips.

She wasn't wearing a bra.

Rachel's eyes went wide and she turned to face the far wall.

Brittany pushed the dress over her hips and stepped out of it, leaving the expensive silk in a shimmering pile on the floor. Clad only in a pair of black boyshorts with pink polka dots on them, she sauntered across the room to her dance bag, making sure to cross directly in Rachel's eyeline.

She bent and took a tanktop out of her bag, but still didn't bother to put it on. She leaned against the wall and watched Rachel try to look everywhere but at her bare chest.

"Y'all are crazy." Mercedes picked up Brittany's dress and a hanger, pointedly held them out to Brittany.

"What?" Brittany took the dress and hung it up, but still feigned innocence. "I just want to know if Rachel's new girlfriend is yummy."

"Actually, I want to know too. Spill it, girl."

Rachel primly arranged her skirt. "She's just someone I ran into when I stopped by my old building. But if you must know..."

"Oh, we must know." Mercedes interjected.

"Well. She was quite..." Rachel paused, searching for the word.

"Pretty?" Mercedes offered.

"Bangable?" Brittany snickered.

"...Lovely." Rachel decided. "She was just lovely." Her voice was soft, breathless by the end of the sentence.

Brittany and Mercedes stared at Rachel, more curious than ever about this mystery woman. But before anyone could speak again, someone knocked on the door jamb.

"Um...Mercedes? I think they're ready for you." It was Kurt's brother, Finn. He, Sam, and Sam's younger brother Stevie were having the finishing touches put on their tuxes today too. Because of his taping schedule, Kurt was having his tailoring done at the studio.

"I'll be right there, Finn." Mercedes called over her shoulder.

She wagged a finger at Rachel. "I expect more details about Miss Lovely when I get back."

Mercedes swept the curtain aside and stepped out of the changing room. Finn caught an eyeful of Brittany's bare breasts as she did so.

"Uh. Oh. I. Um. Sorr...Uh. Uh." He swung his head wildly from side to side, frantically trying to find somewhere safe to look.

"Calm down, Finn, it's just boobs." Mercedes grabbed his arm and dragged him away. "But Brittany, cover those nipples before Stevie walks by and dies of a heart attack."

Sam's 17 year old brother was more than a bit smitten with Brit. Stevie had always had a crush on her, but with Brittany on tour and Stevie and Stacy in boarding school, Sam's younger siblings hadn't seen much of her in the past few years. The first sight of Brittany this week had made Stevie's head spin and his voice crack.

But Brittany had known Stevie since he was a toddler. She still hugged and pinched and teased him like she always had. He tried to play it cool, but everyone could see he was one lingering hair tousle away from passing out.

Brittany pulled her tank top on, found her jeans crumpled in a corner and slipped those on too. She located her right sneaker, under someone's jacket, and was on her knees hunting for the left when Rachel cleared her throat and spoke.

"So... Yes. She is."

Brittany looked up, surprised. Rachel was still standing, stock still, in the middle of the changing room.

"Who is what?" Brittany asked, confused.

"Quinn. Her name is Quinn."

"The girl you met?"

Rachel nodded, nervous. She licked her lips. "And she...is." Rachel had to work hard to get the last word out.

"Is...?"

"What you said."

"What did I say? When?"

Brittany enjoyed watching Rachel squirm, but she wasn't playing dumb. She really had no clue what the girl was talking about.

"H...hot." Rachel stammered. She felt a flash of flame in her cheeks and forehead.

"Oh." Brittany's eyes lit up. "Ohh! Awesome!" She jumped to her feet and held up her hand for Rachel to high-five.

Rachel stared for a second. Then she started to giggle. "It is awesome." She stood on tiptoes to hit Brittany's hand.

The high-five didn't quite land, but for the first time in the two years they had known each other, Brittany and Rachel shared a genuine smile.

"Sit down, they'll be a while with Mercedes." Brittany offered Rachel the hassock, and settled herself cross legged on the floor. She dug a pack of strawberry Bubbilicous out of her pocket and picked out a piece for herself.

"You want?" she held the pack out to Rachel.

Rachel wrinkled her nose but managed a polite enough "No, thank you."

They didn't speak for a moment, the only sound the smacking and popping of Brittany's mouthful of gum.

"So..." Brittany said after a while. "When are you going out with her?"

Rachel's eyes widened. "Going out?"

"Yeah, like, on a date? Dinner. Dancing. Sweet lady kisses..." Brittany leered in Rachel's direction.

"We're not."

"Huh?"

"She's a complete stranger. I couldn't just...ask her out."

"Why not though? You think she's hot. She probably thought you were hot..."

"I don't know if she..."

"Rachel." Brittany interrupted. "You're really annoying. And sometimes mean. And most of the time I super wish you'd shut up. But..." Brittany blew a bubble. Shreds of gum clung to her lower lip and she scraped them off with her top teeth. "When you manage to stop talking for a minute, you're kind of cute."

"Um. Thank you?"

Brittany shrugged. "Facts are facts. And you have a nice ass."

Rachel blushed. "I think she _was _checking out my..."

"High FIVE."

Since they were both seated, this high five was more successful.

"But you didn't get her number? That sucks. You might never see her again."

"Oh..." Rachel breathed out and couldn't breathe in again. She had been distracted by thoughts of Quinn all morning, trying to puzzle out whether her eyes were hazel, green or brown. She had thought that next time they met she'd be sure to check. She hadn't realized there was no way to be sure there was a next time.

When Rachel fell silent, Brittany looked up.

"Hey. Don't worry. You said she lives in your old building right?"

Rachel nodded, glumly.

"So no problem, you can just hang out in front of the building until she comes by, and act like it's all coincidental, and just ask for her number then."

"Brittany, I can't just stalk her."

"It's not stalking. It's...helping fate along."

Rachel smiled a little. "Maybe..." She imagined seeing Quinn again. The thought set her heart racing, and her thoughts into full panic mode. "Oh my god, I couldn't just ask for her number out of the blue like that. I don't even know if she likes women..."

"She doesn't have to like women. She just has to like _you_." Brittany blew another bubble. "I can tell you suck at this. But Sam said I have to be nice. Now that he and Kurt are gonna be married, you and me are like...friends in law. So I'm gonna help you."

"You're gonna help me?" Rachel asked, a little queasy at the prospect.

"Yep." Brittany nodded decisively. "This week, while we wait around at all these boring fittings and rehearsals and everything, I'm gonna teach you how to pick up chicks. And then after the wedding is done, we're gonna go find this...Quinn?"

Rachel nodded.

"We'll find Quinn and you're gonna ask her out."

"Brittany. That's a generous offer but maybe it's not a good idea..."

"Aw, come on. Meeting girls is fun. What are you so scared of?"

Rachel stared down at her fingers for a few minutes. Sometimes the most uncomfortable thing about Brittany was not her habitual nudity or her constant gum cracking but the eerie truths that spilled out of her when Rachel least expected it.

Rachel bent her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair. "She was really beautiful."

"Perfect. 'Cause Picking up Beautiful Chicks class starts right now. Lesson one. Stop being lame. Start thinking you're awesome."

Rachel couldn't help but smile. Maybe Brittany did have a few things to teach her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Resurrecting this story after a loooooooong period of hiatus. I have a bunch written, I just never actually worked on connecting it all, but it sort of...reared it's head again in my imagination. **

**Anyway, do we remember where we left off? Quinn and Rachel had sparks. But will they ever see each other again. Santana thinks they should, and hatches a plan to crash Kurt's and Sam's big famous gay wedding to help Quinn find Rachel. Meanwhile Rachel's getting help from her new swagger coach, Brittany.**

**Hope y'all are still interested...**

* * *

><p>"Alright. Let's go over the plan one more time."<p>

Santana took a dainty sip of her diet coke and a savage bite out of her burger and turned her attention back to the printouts she had scattered across her desk. Blaine had gotten into the spirit of things and his research was more than thorough. Santana had the one-sheets on Sam and Kurt, a quick reference list of the family and friends who would likely be in attendance at the wedding, and floor plans and photos of the wedding site – a raw studio space on the Brooklyn waterfront that had been converted into a sprawling event venue with dramatic views of the lower Manhattan skyline.

Quinn didn't look up from her salad. "This isn't Ocean's Eleven, Santana. I think I've got the basics."

Santana had wanted complicated back stories and elaborate distractions to get around security, but Blaine had talked her into keeping it simple. The plan was to arrive during cocktail hour, when the grooms were busy with pictures and the rest of the party was crowding the bar, calling the sitter, or ducking out to the parking lot for cigarettes. Quinn and Santana would try to blend in, passing themselves off as guests who had just run out to the car for a forgotten lipstick or joining one of the groups of smokers. If worse came to worse, they were actually in possession of an invitation, which would help make them look legitimate.

Luckily for them, it seemed that Kurt had invited quite a few of the new VPs from his recently launched film production company, Paperwhite Films. Kurt himself wouldn't know most of the new team on sight; Artie Abrams was helming the company and he had brought the team together through his own network of contacts. As long as Quinn and Santana could evade Artie himself and the actual production company staff, they would be able to blend in.

"Still, I think we should…" Santana began.

But Quinn cut her off.

"I know what the ridiculous plan is. We show up, we lie to everyone, we hope by some miracle we don't get hauled off in a squad car before I have time to find and somehow immediately charm this woman I met for all of a minute a half. That's it right? That's the big plan?"

The romance of going to extremes to woo a beautiful woman appealed to Quinn. But the details of a concrete deception made her mouth taste like metal.

"What the hell is your problem today?" Santana glared across the desk at Quinn. "You're being a serious bitch. Like, we're getting back to Astrid levels of bitchery."

Quinn stabbed at her salad, speared a heart of palm. "It just continues to occur to me that this is a terrible, terrible idea."

Santana pursed her lips and nodded slowly.

"Yep. It's a terrible, terrible idea for me to try and inject a fucking lighthearted moment into your existence. Instead, I should probably just let you waste away in front of goddamned Microsoft Office and say nothing at all when you fall back in bed with your evil ex who loves nothing more than to tell you how everything you think is important is a complete waste of your time." Santana's mouth was a hard line. "That would be a much better idea."

Quinn refused to meet Santana's gaze.

"I never asked you to…"

"I know you didn't ask me to, Quinn. But I would like to do something to make you happy."

"And this terrible rom com caper is supposed to make me feel happy?"

"It's supposed to make you feel_something_, Quinn."

Quinn couldn't hold Santana's gaze. She stared into her salad instead and wondered what Rachel was doing right now.

* * *

><p>"So. What's this chick like?"<p>

Brittany had been given the second floor guestroom in Kurt's townhouse for the week. She'd be back on tour after the wedding and her 1 bedroom downtown was sublet through October. She wasn't thrilled about Kurt's early morning hours, but Sam kept a killer workout room, top notch machines, full sets of weights and plenty of room to stretch or even dance. Brittany spent her mornings there while she was a guest in the townhouse.

Rachel watched Brittany stretch out on the floor of the workout room, bringing her face down to her left knee. Rachel was flexible, but not THAT flexible.

"Uh. Well. I don't...I don't know much about her. We only met for like, two minutes."

"So tell me what you do know."

Brittany sat up, fixed her ponytail and stretched down toward her other knee.

"She's um. Blond." Rachel started. "A real honey blonde." She couldn't help but smile. " And green eyes or maybe hazel. And she had a very pretty skirt on."

"Keep going..." Brittany said without coming up from her stretch.

"She looked like…A movie star." Rachel sighed.

"What like, Cameron Diaz or something?"

"No." Rachel frowned. "She looked like a real movie star. Like Grace Kelly."

"She looked DEAD?" Brittany feigned shock.

"_Brittany. _I mean she looked…classic."

"Alright, sounds like she might be into all that boring old time stuff like you and Kurt. What else did you notice?"

Rachel hesitated. "…Her friend..."

"She had a friend?" Brittany came up, then bent low over her other leg.

"She was with another woman. Her name was...Santana? She was dressed like she was going out. Or maybe just coming back in."

Brittany raised an eyebrow and sat up from her stretch. "You sure they were just friends?"

Rachel blushed and stammered out an answer. "Yeah. Yes. Yes. I'm pretty sure."

Brittany squinted at her. "Why?"

"What?"

"Why are you so sure?"

"Oh. Well. Um. I heard them. Talking."

"Talking about what?"

"Talking about me."

Brittany rolled her eyes, then rolled onto her back and threw her legs up over her head.

"Rachel, you gotta be a little more forthcoming if you want me to really help here."

Brittany's voice was muffled, since her torso was bent in two, her stomach level with her mouth. "And don't act all surprised that I used the word 'forthcoming' either. I'm not an idiot. I just don't like novels and musicals like you do."

Rachel bristled, but didn't reply.

"Anyway," Brittany said, rolling over backwards into a somersault. "What were they saying about you?"

"They were saying..." Giggles stopped Rachel and she had to start again. "They were saying I had..." She cracked up a second time.

"They were saying you had a nice ass?" Brittany guessed.

Rachel nodded, blushing. "How'd you know?"

"I told you yesterday, you're annoying, but even I know you have a nice ass."

"Brittany...I don't really see how any of this is..."

Brittany rose to her feet and faced Rachel. "Ok, you met the chick for 2 minutes, but you overheard her talking about your sweet ass, so you know she's into chicks and you can pretty much guarantee she's into you."

"But maybe they were just..."

"Do you not remember yesterday's lesson?"

"Stop thinking I'm lame, start thinking I'm awesome." Rachel obeediently repeated from memory.

"Exactly. So?" Brittany prompted.

"So?" Rachel stared blankly.

"So if you hear people commenting from half a block behind you how much they love your ass, go ahead and assume they're dtf." Brittany said.

"DTF?"

"Down to...forget it." Brittany shook her head.

"Down to forget it? Brittany, I don't understand..."

"Nothing." Brittany insisted. "Moving on. From the way you describe her, she's probably more the quiet type, so that works for you. But she has an edgier friend and she was engaging in a little lady ogling, so she's not completely immune to fun, which is a good sign for her being up to do something if you ask her out."

"So the plan is, I stalk her and ask her out?"

Brittany put 100 pounds of weights on a barbell and lay back on the weight bench.

"Spot me."

"I don't know what that means."

"Stand behind my head. I'm gonna do 16 reps. That means I'm gonna lift this 16 times. It might get hard around...13, 14. Just put your hands under here for the last few and help me make it all the way up, if I need it. 'Kay?"

Rachel nodded, doubtful.

"If you do it wrong, I'll crush my larynx."

"Oh god, Brittany, no!"

Brittany laughed. "I'm just messing with you, It'll be fine."

"So..." Brittany breathed out hard as she lifted the bar. "Yeah, that's the plan. You find the girl you ask her out. You can do that."

Brittany paused as she pushed out another two reps.

"We just need to work on your confidence. So practice."

"Practice?"

"Ask me out."

Rachel stared at Brittany, wide eyed, but couldn't bring herself to say anything for a moment. In the silence, Sam sauntered in, a green juice drink in one hand, a towel in the other. He was wearing shorts and a tanktop, clearly ready for a workout.

"Hey Brit. I came to spot you. But I see you already got someone.  
>Sam turned to grin at Rachel. "I didn't think you'd be here so early, Rach."<p>

Sam chugged his drink, wiped green froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He set the empty glass down on a side table and crossed over to the treadmill.

"Is there some wedding stuff going on that I don't know about? Am I supposed to be rehearsing something or having my head measured or...? Cause Kurt printed out schedules for the week, I could have sworn we didn't have anything this morning."

"Ahh, no." Rachel answered as Sam punched up a brisk pace for himself on the treadmill. "No wedding stuff. I'm just here to talk to Brittany."

Sam raised an eyebrow. He had heard Brittany say a lot of things about Rachel, but "I'd like to spend the morning with her" was never one of them.

Brittany didn't catch Sam's look, just kept pushing out reps on the barbells. Her face was a little red now, her arms shaking.

"Hello? Spotter?" She managed to get out.

Rachel jumped to attention, guided Brittany through the last few reps. Brittany set the barbell back it's cradle with a clank and motioned for Rachel to throw her a towel.

Rachel did, then primly settled herself on the seat of the rowing machine.

Brittany toweled sweat off of her brow and the back of her neck. "So..go ahead, Rachel. Ask me."

Rachel eyed Sam. "With him here?" she whispered.

Brittany shrugged. "Why not?"

"It's...private."

Sam glanced over his shoulder without breaking his stride. "Did I...interrupt something?"

"No. You didn't. Go ahead Rachel. Ask."

Rachel sorted out the pleats of her skirt, composed a sentence in her head, mentally rehearsed it twice, mouthed the words once and nodded to herself. She looked up, at Brittany, who was busy chugging water from a nalgene bottle.

"Well. Ahh. When I saw you the other day, I was struck by your beauty. Our meeting has been on my mind all this time. I'd very much like to get to know you better. Would you be interested in going to dinner with me sometime?"

Sam looked back at the girls, wide eyed. He missed a step and the treadmill sped on without him. His feet flew out from under him; his head banged the handrail on the way down. The treadmill spit him off and he ended up in a heap at the foot of the machine.

"Oh my-"

"Sam!"

Rachel and Brittany both hurried to Sam's side.

"Sam, are you ok?" Brittany asked.

He lifted his head. A thin trickle of blood was evident on his left temple.

"You're bleeding!" Rachel drew a hand to her mouth. Brittany rolled her eyes at the theatrical gesture.

"You ok?" She asked Sam again.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." He waved off the girls' offers of help and started to stand up on his own.

"Do you need ice? Do you want some alcohol for the cut? Maybe a..."

"Rachel, I don't need anything. Thank you. Really. I was just startled. Lost my footing."

"Startled?"

"Well, yeah, you were asking Brittany out. That was kind of...surprising. To say the least."

Sam didn't feel it necessary to mention the many long conversations he and Kurt had had about Rachel's sexuality, her disinterest in dating. Or the time that Brittany had said "That Rachel girl is really kind of cute but she NEVER SHUTS UP. I'll bet she monologues during sex."

Oh, no." Rachel hastened to explain. "I wasn't asking her out. I was just practicing asking her out."

Sam wet a paper towel with water from the water cooler and dabbed at his temple, cleaning off the blood.

"So you're gonna practice now and ask her out later?" Sam asked, confused. He turned to Brittany. "Help me out?"

"She's just practicing on me so she can ask this other girl that she's obsessed with."

"I'm not obsessed..." Rachel protested.

"Rachel, you came over here at 7 in the morning to talk to me about her. You're obsessed."

Rachel opened her mouth and shut it again without saying anything.

"Alright, Rach!" Sam gave Rachel an encouraging squeeze with his left arm. He was slightly sweaty, she pulled away quickly.

"Brittany was just helping me gain a little confidence." Rachel avoided Sam's gaze. "You know, dating isn't really my thing."

Sam and Brittany exchanged a look over Rachel's head. They were both well aware that dating wasn't really her thing.

Sam had actually set Rachel up with one of his trainers once. Robbie was nice, smart, super fit. He was all into that vegan stuff that Rachel was always talking about. It might not be a match for the ages, but when Rachel needed a date for a red carpet event, Sam figured she might like to have a handsome, well muscled straight guy on her arm who would know what she was talking about when she went on about the benefits of quinoa.

So he set them up for a coffee date, to see it maybe it would work out. Kurt had just grinned when Sam floated the idea.

"Have you ever seen Rachel on a date?" Kurt had asked.

"No. What? Why?"

"You'll find out." Kurt had said with an enigmatic look on his face.

A few hours after the coffee date, Sam found out.

"It's not that she's not a nice girl Sam, but…"

"Aw, Rob, how bad could it have been? She's…she's kind of fun sometimes, right?"

"Sammy, sorry man, I like a girl who breathes between words. She ranted at the server for a solid 10 minutes about how exiting the shift to organic chai was."

"She's enthusiastic!"

"She's exhausting."

"Aw. Well, it was worth a shot."

"Plus she kept checking out the barista girl's ass. I felt kinda left out."

Rachel did seem to do better with women than with men. They liked her chatter, they liked her drive, and she clearly liked them a lot more than she liked men. But there was something about the idea of dating women seriously that still seemed to frighten her, even though she had hooked up with girls in college.

Instead of getting serious with women or men, Rachel had insisted on a laserlike focus on her career. In the past 5 years she had gone from off-Broadway to supporting roles on Broadway to a breakout starring role in the big hit show, "She Might Not, Anyway, Either". All along, she had been working on cabaret material, trying it out at Don't Tell Mama's or The Savoy. She had a full cabaret show now, and when "She Might Not, Anyway, Either" closed, Rachel went straight into doing that four nights a week, recording her album the rest of the time, and of course, planning Kurt's wedding with him in her "spare" moments.

It was especially hard for Brittany to really understand how Rachel could be so cavalier about the place dating held in her life. Brittany was pretty busy and successful herself. She had long rehearsal nights and early morning calls and choreography to work on and research to do and long flights in-between. But she was always flirting with people, taking them up on offers of coffee or dinner or a night out…or a night in. Brittany liked the company and the physical contact. She learned best when she learned with her body and people were no exception to that. She liked finding out people's secret ticklish spots or hidden birthmarks. She liked walking into an unfamiliar apartment at midnight and walking out at 8 AM knowing exactly where the pop tarts were.

She didn't actually have sex with all or even most of the people who she dated. There were a few trusted friends and a few interesting acquaintances along the way, but Brittany was sometimes even happier with just cuddles and a make out session. And she was so beguiling she somehow managed to make sure her paramours were happy with that too, even if they thought there was more in store when the dancer with the bangin' body agreed to come home with them that night.

So it was foreign to Brittany to see how Rachel lived her life – without intimate touches, without the pleasure of snuggly naked mornings and giggly half dressed midnight snacks.

It drove Brittany up a wall that Rachel was wound so tightly. But more importantly, it was clear to Brittany that Rachel clearly didn't know about a million things about herself. And that just sucked.

Rachel was Kurt's best friend, Kurt was Sammy's husband, and Sammy was basically Brittany's brother. So by the transitive property of relationships, Rachel was family now, for life. And Brittany wasn't interested in watching Rachel achieve massive professional success and tank her personal life.

Because in 15 years they'd still all be at Thanksgiving together and Brittany would be damned if she was going to get backed into a corner by rich spinster Rachel and forced to listen to her rendition of Send in the Clowns.

Brittany's vision of future Thanksgiving involved Sammy and Kurt having a perfectly coiffed brood of boys whom Brittany would enjoy getting all muddy out in the yard of the town house; Stevie and Stacy with their boyfriends or girlfriends or whatever they were into that year; Mercedes with some hunk on her arm, and maybe a fancy gay nephew in tow. And Rachel with someone who really wanted to listen what she had to say. So Brittany didn't have to.

Brittany wasn't so sure who she'd be with at Thanksgiving Future. But she wasn't worried. She'd know it when she saw it. She knew she would.

"…right Britt?"

"Huh?" Brittany shook herself out of her reverie to find Sam looking at her expectantly.

"I was just saying, it's ok that Rachel doesn't know much about dating. 'Cause you sure do."

"Gee, thanks Sammy." Brittany punched Sam in the arm.

"Not like that, I meant…"

"I know, I know." She turned to Rachel. "And as the expert here, I'm going to rate that ask at a 3.5."

"Out of four?" Rachel asked hopefully.

"Out of 10." Brittany gave her a withering look.

"C'mon Brittany. Be fair."

"Sam was here, he saw it." Brittany turned to Sam. "What do you think it rates?

Sam busied himself with switching out weights on a barbell. "Oh, uh, maybe uh…4?"

Rachel sank against the wall, chagrined. "What'd I do wrong?"

"Too little confidence." Brittany said.

"Too many words." Sam said.

Rachel steeled herself to try again.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Dapper Dan!" Santana called out to Blaine as he passed her office with a stack of proofs in his arms.<p>

Blaine slowed to a stop in front of her door. "I presume you're talking to me?"

"You're the only one in this hallway that uses Brillcreme, so yeah."

Blaine deflected the snark with a charming smile as he entered the room. "It seems like you're having a rough day Santana. Is there something I can get for you? Tea? Coffee? Phone number of the new afternoon receptionist?

Santana looked up eagerly. "Really?"

"Santana! Blaine admonished, "she's barely 17."

Santana scowled. "Whose idea was that?"

"Erika's. it's her cousins kid. Here for a summer in the big city. Hands off."

"Well. You were the one pimping her."

"I was kidding." Blaine waited a beat, watched Santana stretch in her chair. As she turned her face toward the light, fine lines in her forehead were revealed by the sun.

Blaine frowned. "You wanted me for something?"

"Yeah, but not work. Fun."

"The crash?" Blaine put his look books down and leaned across Santana's desk conspiratorially.

Santana nodded, peering at an email at the same time. She typed out a quick response, then turned her attention to Blaine.

"She's got cold feet."

"Well. This really isn't her kind of..."

"That's the point! Her kind of thing these days is Turner Classic Movies with that pop eyed beast."

"I thought Astrid was gone for good?" Blaine asked innocently.

"I meant the dog...oh. Ha. Good one, Dapper Dan."

Blaine pulled on his bow tie, cocky.

But Santana was scowling. "She needs this Blaine. I saw her with that girl. I think…I think it be something real. Does that sound nuts?"

"No…" Blane said slowly. "Anything's possible. But...can I just ask why you care so much...?

Santana shrugged, uncomfortable. "She's my best friend. I want her to be happy."

"Yeah but why this girl, this wedding?"

Santana didn't answer. Instead she stood up from her desk chair and moved to the window. She leaned her against the glass and looked down at the traffic below.

"You believe in love at first sight?" She asked Blaine without turning around. "Soulmates? All that?"

"I not think there's one person for everyone. But I think...I guess I think you can find people who just seem to fit a lot better than others. You can tell that right away." Blaine said.

"That's just it. I knew she fit."

"You mean Quinn and this girl?" Blaine asked.

"I mean Quinn and me."

Blaine choked back a surprised gasp. "Oh, I mean, I knew you two had… But I didn't think it was that serious."

"It wasn't. I wouldn't let it be. I hurt her every chance I got. The fact that we are such good friends now is a testament to her ability to see through my bullshit. And her patience for my bad behavior." Santana considered for a minute "…And maybe a little bit to my super abilities in the sack."

Blaine primly resettled himself on his chair and ignored that last part.

"I'm just saying, I think she and I had a shot at something real and I wasn't ready. And she was nice about it but I think it kind of fucked her up. I feel like I painted her with my dismal fucking brush, you know?"

"Santana, you didn't break her." Blaine said gently.

"No...but I made a big enough crack for shitty Astrid to crawl into and finish the job from the inside out. And now she is broken, you can't say she's not. And this girl made her shine again, and I think I owe her a chance to get back there."

"Wow, Santana. That's...noble."

"Don't be gross. Just help me ok?"

"Sure, what can I do?" Blaine asked.

"My apartment. 8 tomorrow. Bring your fashion forward boyfriend. And wine."

"Sounds great. But what for?"

"Fashion show."

"Ooohh." Blaine clapped.

"Yep. She's doing this." Santana said, almost grim. " And she's doing it in fucking style."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi all. Thanks for the reviews! To answer some questions people have asked - no, I don't plan to have Kurt and Blaine get together in this. I have no problem with them as a couple, they can be cute. But I just liked Blaine on his own this time, with kind of a herocrush on Kurt. **

**Also some people have mentioned that they think the Brittany in this story is a little sassier and mouthier than canon Brittany. Maybe...this is just how she came out when I wrote. I think we don't see Brit say much in the show, I wanted her to talk more, and I wanted her to be able to boss Rachel around. **

**Finally, I'm sure y'all are like, CRASH THE WEDDING ALREADY. They will get there, I promise. But I really do want to cover a little bit about each girl's back story before I get them all together. **

**Hope you enjoy this update. :) **

* * *

><p>"Oh my god. There's no way I can wear this Santana."<p>

Quinn gaped at her reflection in the mirror. The dress was bright red, skin tight, covered in glittering beads. On Santana it would have come to mid thigh. Maybe. Quinn was two inches taller and the dress was accordingly higher on her.

"It's a black tie wedding." Quinn continued. "Not a clothing optional tiki bar."

"Sorry my dresses aren't the nun length that you prefer."

"I can never decide if you're the worst best friend ever, or the best worst friend ever." Quinn said, glaring at Santana.

Santana glared right back. But she did take her eyes off of Quinn's for a minute to sweep them down her bare legs.

"Oh my god Santana, stop."

"Jesus Fabray, I try to pay you a compliment…"

Blaine's boyfriend sipped his wine and watched the girls, rapt. "It's like being in the Interior Illusions Lounge on Drag Race but like, the drag queens are REAL and sort of want to have sex with each other."

Blaine gave Danny a good natured push on the shoulder.

"Ladies," Blaine interjected, "let's not quibble." He picked up a garment bag that he had draped across the arm of Santana's couch.

"Danny brought a little surprise…"

Danny gulped down another mouthful of wine and set his glass aside. "No fair, my surprise, I get to tell."

Blaine relinquished the bag and sat down on the sofa.

"Wellllll….Crashing a wedding of this magnitude is a momentous occasion. And although beautiful women like you hardly need the help, gorgeous, expensive clothes never hurt. So…" Danny slowly unzipped the garment bag, from the top down. Satin and silk in a variety of shades peeked out – Vermillion, chartreuse, cerulean.

"Did you…"Quinn gasped.

Danny nodded. "I raded the sample closet at work." Danny worked as a fashion assistant at _New Yorkish_, a high end glossy magazine.

"Are you allowed?"

"Will any of this even fit us?

"Um…Sort of and sort of." Danny answered. "We're not supposed to take things from the closet, but Millie is on an absolute rampage. Everyone else is off in Paris and she's mad she's left to mind the store. So she decided we're purging. She pulled everything she doesn't want to feature and told me to dump it. I may have added some choice pieces that she missed, but she saw the whole haul and said she didn't care where it went. So have at it. Hats are in the…" Danny pointed to a few bags at his feet.

"OH you brought HATS?"

Quinn dove for the bag. Quinn loved hats.

Danny nodded "No shoes though, I know you two have shoes." He started pulling dresses from the garment bag. "For the sizes, I think they might be too long, but you're both fairly tiny, so I think the waists should fit. Maybe a little extra in the bust, if you need I can help you do some quick alterations.

Quinn and Danny started happily digging through the hats. Santana toasted Blaine with her wine glass.

"Well played Dapper Dan."

"Well, Millie's rampage just happened to come at a convenient moment. I just helped Danny realize how to take advantage." He paused, grinned at Danny and Quinn, then turned back to Santana and continued. "A noble knight deserves some support, Santana."

Santana and Blaine looked up just in time to see Quinn getting zipped into a floor length gown, in cream and gold. Her hair shimmered, her eyes shone, and she looked perflectly gorgeous.

"Or maybe all of this is just meant to be." Danny said.

* * *

><p>A few hours later there were three empty wine bottles on Santana's table, a pizza box on the floor with a half slice left in it and dresses strewn over every available surface. Quinn had tried on everything, but come back to that first, loveliest shimmering gown, and added a vintage looking hair comb that Danny had dug from one of the boxes.<p>

Santana had been considering just wearing one of her own dresses until she pulled out a black and arsenic green silk number.

"You look like a snake!" Danny had giggled.

"You look like a movie star." Blaine had smiled.

"You look…unstoppable." Quinn had gasped.

"Perfect." Santana had kissed at her reflection in the mirror. "Unstoppable is just what we need."

But now everyone had gone, and Santana was left alone with the quiet and the mess.

She didn't mind the mess. But the quiet always messed with her head.

Santana picked up a half empty wine glass and drained it. She thought it was hers. It might have been Quinn's. Or Danny's. Whatever.

But the wine left a stale taste in her mouth. She collected the glasses and brought them out to the kitchen, grabbing a beer from the fridge on her way to the sink.

She rinsed the dishes in the sink, then laid them in the dishwasher. Quinn had one of those "classic" apartments, all exposed brick and tiny closets and no dishwasher. But Santana didn't mind trading a little charm for a lot more convenience. Her kitchen was small and packed with brushed aluminum appliances. The dishwasher rarely got a workout – she usually ate nothing for breakfast and takeout for dinner. But now Santana loaded the glasses in and hunted up some dishwashing detergent.

She punched up a wash cycle, then returned to the living room with beer in hand. She gathered up the wine bottles and pizza box and shoved it all into the trash can. She thought about it for a second, then grabbed a second beer, a pack of cigarettes. Santana didn't always smoke, but she liked having the option.

Santana headed to the door, picking up her keys from the hall table on the way out. She also grabbed a chunky sweater from the hall closet. It got breezy up on the roof, even in summer.

Santana pushed the "UP" button and waited for the elevator. In a moment, the elevator arrived on her floor, the doors slid open to reveal a slim young woman in exercise clothes.

"Shit." Santana said, not quite under her breath.

"Hello to you too, Santana" the woman said with a tight smile.

"Hi Ali…" Santana said, but angled her body toward the wall and pressed PH2.

"Going up to the roof?" Ali was much taller than Santana, even in sneakers. It wasn't hard for her to peer over Santana's shoulder.

"Um. Yeah."

"By yourself?" Ali eyed the two bottles of beer in Santana's hand.

Santana didn't answer. They rode for a few more floors in silence, and Santana kicked herself for moving into such a tall high rise.

Ali watched the numbers count up on the display…26, 27, 28. At 30 she lost the battle with herself and spoke first.

"You know, you could try being a normal civil person once in a while. Maybe call people after you have sex with them. Or say at least say hello when you pass them in the lobby."

Santana had the grace to cringe a little.

"I'm…"

"Save it. You're not sorry. You got what you wanted. And that's fine that that's all it was. I just…would have thought you had more class than to slink off without a goodbye. I live in your goddamned building Santana. Did you really think we would never see each other again?"

"I…"

"That why you've moved on to all those college girls now? Easier to avoid the morning after?"

Santana took shook her head, slumped against the elevator wall and took a sip of her open beer. She was wearing low slung jeans and a white tank top. Her biceps rippled as she pulled the beer to her mouth. The bottom of her tanktop rode up to reveal a strip of tanned, toned stomach.

Ali tried to tear her eyes away, but could only make her eyes skip from Santana's stomach to her arms to her cleavage to her mouth.

Santana laughed.

"You're such an asshole." Ali scowled.

Santana shrugged. "Does that mean you don't want to meet me on the roof for a drink?" She took her time taking another sip from her beer, making sure to lick her lips when she was finished.

Ali tried her calm her breathing.

The doors slid open on her floor – 48. Santana put out an arm to keep the doors from closing.

"Well?"

"FUCK. Just let me change."

Santana grinned. "Bring some wine or something."

"I hate you." Ali called over her shoulder as she headed toward her apartment.

"Or something like that." Santana said to the closing elevator doors.

* * *

><p>It was warmer than Santana had expected on the roof; there was almost no wind. But there were surprisingly few people up there for a summer night – a few guys clinking beer cans and talking baseball in the far corner, a couple snuggling up and giggling while they peered through open windows in the high rise across 9th avenue.<p>

Santana walked around to the far side of the patio, then rounded a corner onto a darker, quieter side of the roof. She leaned against the low brick wall that separated the roof from the traffic below and peered down at the street. A line of taxis, thick and bright as honey, slid down 9th, across onto 42nd.

The buzz Ali had started up in the elevator was fading already, Santana gulped down the rest of her beer and cracked open a second, hoping to start a new one.

An hour ago, laughing over dresses and sorting through accessories with Quinn and the boys, everything had seemed very lighthearted, happiness was not only real, but possible. But on the roof it seemed to buzz far below.

Ali had sounded amusing a few minutes ago, but now Santana just felt disappointed that she had made the mistake of ruining her own solitude. Ali would come up, they'd have drinks and make out. Go back down to Ali's apartment. Have some fun, in a general sort of way. If Santana remembered correctly (and she usually did), Ali wasn't particularly silly, but she wasn't particularly exciting either. No one was anymore.

Santana didn't relish the idea of having to keep up her end of the conversation for the next half hour before they could get down to business. She supposed maybe she could go straight for it, but after all that in the elevator, clearly Ali felt she was owed a little coversation.

Santana peered around the corner, but Ali wasn't up yet. The couple was picking up their wine glasses to head back in, and the guys had started shotgunning beers.

Santana strolled to the far edge of the roof and back. A utility closet door was propped open, some maintenance guy had stopped mid job. A can of paint and brushes spilled out of the closet and on to the ground.

Santana looked out to the street again. She could make out the figures of people strolling. She knew some of them were holding hands.

She imagined Quinn holding this new girl's hand. Rachel. She imagined Quinn smiling, squeezing Rachel's hand, giving her that soft focus look that had always made Santana melt a little and then freeze. Even now, just imagining tenderness, Santana's stomach clenched.

Santana realized that she'd never be able to make it through tonight with Ali.

Just then, she heard Ali calling from the other side of the roof. "Santana. Santana?"

Santana cursed under her breath and then looked for an out. Her eyes fell on the open utility closet.

She wondered if she were really coward enough for that, then heard Ali coming closer and dove for the door anyway.

She ducked inside just as Ali came around the side of the building. "Santana?"

Santana stayed quiet as she heard Ali pace the patio, then circle around to the other side and back again.

"Seriously? Seriously?" She heard Ali's voice rise in tone and pitch, incredulous.

"Looking for someone?" the guys in the corner asked.

"Umm.." Ali debated, but figured she might as well ask. "Did you see a woman come up here? Short…long hair. White tanktop?"

"Oh yeah. She was over there a few minutes ago. Guess she left."

Ali cursed under her breath, dropped one of the wine glasses she was carrying to the bricks. It shattered and she ground down on a piece with the heel of her sneaker.

"Dude…" one of the guys muttered. They eyed Ali suspiciously, then turned back to their conversation.

"Why do you even bother, Santana?" Ali yelled, disgusted, as she headed back toward the elevators. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

In the dark of the janitor's closet, Santana reeked of paint fumes and wondered the same thing.

* * *

><p>Santana high tailed it back to her apartment, waiting a decent interval to make sure she didn't see Ali in the elevator. Maybe she'd start taking the stairs anyway. 20 floors twice a day was no big deal, right?<p>

Back in her apartment she shut the door, bee-lined to the fridge for yet another beer and threw herself on the couch.

What IS wrong with me?

Santana sipped her beer and tried to trace back over the years, find that bump, find that divot, the point on the line of her life that indicated her first step onto this path.

Try as she might, Santana couldn't find that missed step, that strange beginning. She had always been a kind of hard girl, pushy, bossy, in charge of her peers. She had always been popular though, never bullied or teased. She had always been smart enough to do well without trying, and savvy enough not to do well enough to catapult herself into nerd status. In high school she had been a cheerleader, on honor roll, had the lead in some plays. She was a well rounded girl, well liked.

She had dated in high school. Boys, and popular boys at that. Lacrosse boys, football boys. The right kind of guys to be seen with. No one too bright or too challenging, Santana didn't want to run into too many challenges in her dating life.

She had a few close girl friends. And then she got even closer with one or two girls that she wouldn't count as friends exactly. Acquaintances and secrets was more like it. Girls from other schools at cheer camp, in musty supply closets on rainy days. Girls who worked the checkout at the supermarket and went to school the next town over, in a shitty van in the parking lot after she got her break. Girls she met on vacation, while her parents were out at a late show in Vegas or an early morning hike in Costa Rica. No one too close to home.

There wasn't any reason for it really, it wasn't like she had a lot to fear. Some of her parents friends were gay, some of her friends at home were gay. She knew coming out would make some ripples but it wouldn't have ripped her life asunder. But Santana persisted in trying to keep her relationships and her real emotional life separate. That is just how it had always seemed it should be.

At home, her father had spoiled her and her mother had challenged her, but they had both loved her, they had both always wanted her and kept her safe. They had paid for college, they had paid for her car. And then another car after that when the first one got wrapped around a tree while Santana was distracted by the girl in the passenger seat.

When she had come home for Thanksgiving freshman year and announced that was it, she was definitely gay, they had nodded and told her they loved her. They had insisted they would be happy to meet any girls Santana wanted to bring home.

But Santana never brought any girls home. She dated plenty and slept around some, but aside from a few months here or there, she never ended up in a relationship that would make any sense walking through the door to meet her parents.

"But are you happy, Santana?" Her mother would ask.

"Leave her alone, Alma, she's having fun." Her father would say, and he'd throw an arm around Santana and wink at her and she'd feel a happy feeling rise in her chest, like her dad know how stunning and impossible girls were and this was normal and all the girls and guys at school who said, don't you ever want to stick to one person? were stunted and small.

When she got out of school, things changed a bit. It was a little harder to meet new people without the help of parties and mixers and a three day weekend every weekend.

But she got the hang of it, found the places where she could be successful. And her parents kept waiting for her to bring a girl home, kept waiting but nothing happened.

Except that Quinn had happened and Santana had been so close to bringing her home for Christmas that first year. So close. They had been dating for five months, which was an unprecedented streak for Santana. And Quinn had said something about not wanting to fly all the way to Cali, so maybe she'd just stay in New York that year. Santana already had her Ohio plane tickets and it had been right there on the tip of her tongue to say come with me, come with me, I love you, come with me.

But a fast forward film had played through Santana's head, of her mother greeting them and commenting on how pretty Quinn was and her father's winks taking on new meaning and Quinn there in her childhood bedroom and awkward kisses on that twin bed, and eating breakfast lunch and dinner with Quinn for four days straight and Quinn under the Christmas tree opening a present Santana got her which would never be good enough or right. And Santana picking a fight to make things change or shrink. And everything going well until it just got terribly messed up and Quinn just wondering if this was the first Christmas or the last Christmas and Santana couldn't take it at all.

So she had gone home to Christmas by herself. And Quinn had spent Christmas with Blaine and some gays. And Santana came back for new years and wined and dined Quinn with in an inch of her life, spent a romantic night with her, made an only sort of burned breakfast in the morning, and then said "I can't do this. I think we just have to be friends."

She shuddered, pulled her sweater closer around her.

She never used the word lonely, but here it was, creeping up on her again and again.

She couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. Someone belonged here, but it wasn't Quinn and it wasn't Ali and it wasn't any of the other girls Santana had ever met.


End file.
